


Ghost of You

by threedragons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jonerys, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jonerys, Mad Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 16:22:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19816000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threedragons/pseuds/threedragons
Summary: “Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.”Jon Snow’s coin has seemingly landed on the right side, until he is haunted by the ghost of Daenerys Targaryen.





	Ghost of You

The freefolk had spent the day marching through the frozen wasteland of the true north. They had left at sunrise, packing up the camp they had set up the night before. Each day was the same: camp for the night, hike through the day, repeat. 

Jon’s feet had begun to blister, as his self-made shoes were falling apart. He had never been the craftiest of his family, and it showed now. With each passing day, the days grew shorter. The long nights were colder each time; arctic winds sliced at his cheeks and nose. Ghost trudged behind him, the great direwolf weary from the trip. 

“How much further?” he asked Tormund. The red-headed giant trudged on next to him, seemingly unaffected by the conditions.

“Until we find somewhere to camp,” he said.

“Getting tired already little one?” Vigmyr asked, smiling at Jon with a vicious grin of yellowed teeth. His eyes were wild and blue; hair disheveled black curls. He was smaller than Tormund but larger than Jon, with an ego that exceeded them both. 

Jon tried not to let the comment bother him. He was a freefolk now, not a king. The people north of the wall were not unkind, but they spoke freely. Any offense he felt at their words he had kept to himself. 

He pushed forward. The hill seemed to go on forever. Jon’s boots could barely cling to the slick surface beneath them. He gripped his toes for balance; the snow beneath him near solid ice. 

Soon, they reached flat ground. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon; the rolling hills of ice painted with an orange glow. Tormund stopped in front of him, eyeing their surroundings. 

“We’ll stop here,” he said.

+

The freefolk had pitched together their tents in a massive camp that sprawled for almost a mile. Jon had set each piece of wood strategically, as for a stronger fire, when Vigmyr approached, dropping an armful of wooden logs on top of his. Jon’s logs scattered and fell. With an angry huff, he stood next to the wildling man, inches from his face.

“Back off,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“What are you going to do, _Queenslayer_? That’s what they call you down south isn’t it? Or should I say, _kinslayer_?” He said.

Jon shoved at the man’s chest, knocking him a step back. He reached for the hilt of his sword, but Vigmyr laughed. His laugh was deep and guttural, and he shook with it.

“Woah, easy there,” Vigmyr said, “Lighten up a little. What are you so angry for, little man? Is that that dragon fire in you?” 

Jon seethed in anger, it grew inside him, threatening to boil over. He spit at the wildling’s feet.

Tormund interjected, bounding towards the two of them.

“Ay, break it up,” He said, holding his arms out between them. “Snow, get more wood for the fire would you?” 

Jon glared at Vigmyr, but turned towards the dark forest.

The chatter of the camp began to fade as Jon stepped through the trees. As he walked from the camp’s fires, the woods seemed to grow darker. The wind was unusually chill that night, and his breathe swirled through the air before him. Soon, the crunch of his footsteps on snow were the only sound of life. The wind howled through the trees, blowing the frozen leaves with a rattle. 

He had found a log of a broken tree, and began to chop away with an axe. After a while, the woods had grown quiet, save for the chopping of wood. It left an unsettling feeling in Jon; the hair on his arms rose. 

A twig snapped behind him and he turned around. His eyes squinted into the darkness, but he saw nothing.

In the corner of his eye he saw a flash of silver hair. 

“Ghost?” He called. “Is that you?” 

The woods were silent. It was his imagination, he assumed, and he continued with the wood. 

After a few minutes, he had piled as much as he could carry. He held the logs in his arms and turned to head back to camp, leaving the darkness behind him. The hair on the back of his neck stood, warning that he was being watched.

He turned around, preparing to drop the wood and unsheathe his sword. 

It was then that he saw her. He could barely make out a figure between the leaves blowing in the breeze. Her hair was long and silver, it flowed down to her waist. She wore a gown, long and white that seemed to stretch forever into the snow. 

Jon froze. He blinked his eyes shut, trying desperately to remove the vision. But when he opened them again, she was still there.

Her bloodshot eyes were sunken in; her skin was pale as the snow. She was crying, her face streaked with tears. Her eyes were filled with anguish and pain. When she spoke, her voice carried with the wind.

“ _Help me._ ”

+

When he returned, they had started the fire. Embers swirled into the air, warming his frozen skin. He placed the logs beside the fire and sat.

“What’s a matter Snow?” Tormund asked. “You see any white walkers?” He laughed, the rest of the freefolk joining in.

“Nothing,” Jon said, smiling. “Just my imagination.” Ghost approached him and he pet the direwolf’s white fur; it comforted him.

Vigmyr spoke from across the flames. “We’ll continue on tomorrow. There’s a valley across the way that could be teeming with wildlife, if we can get to it.” 

Jon had grown tired of the constant moving. He yearned for the stability of a castle. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for the freefolk life, after all.

“I’m gonna go to sleep,” Jon said, leaving the fire. 

He made his way to where his tent was set, far from the life of the fire. Ghost did not follow,  
but took off into the woods. Hunting, surely.

Jon closed his tent behind him, tying the strips of fabric at the opening. He removed his old boots, tossing them to the side. He pulled himself under the cover of his furs, grateful for the warmth they brought. He shut his eyes.

“Jon.”

A soft voice called out in the night. He sat up suddenly, but the room around him was dark and empty. His heart fluttered in his chest. 

Jon rested his head once more, but the prospect of sleep seemed abysmal. For years he had grieved her. He saw her in every dream. Her soft laugh echoed through his thoughts; her smile warm as daylight in his memory. He had never imagined her in real life though, and the idea frightened him. He brushed it off, for a grieving mind could imagine all sorts of things. 

He rolled over, trying to make himself comfortable on the frozen ground. 

“Jon.”

His eyes jolted awake. This time, she stood over him. Surely he must have fallen asleep; this was a dream. But the tips of her dress brushed his torso, and a tear dropped on the ground beside him. His breath caught in his lungs. 

He wanted to reach out to her, to embrace her, but she stood, terrified and in pain. His voice trembled, “Dany?”

“Jon..” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “ _Help me._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> don’t know if i should continue this or not... let me know!


End file.
